Book Read Free

Cold Play

Page 7

by Winona Kent


  “You’re very welcome.”

  I pop my earbuds back in, and take my leave. Could she be the author of my two lilac-coloured cards? Could she be SaylerGurl?

  Here we go, then, round the bow, where no one except circuit walkers and crew dare venture—there’s the door that rattles incessantly as the wind blasts through it. Spare ropes, spare lifejackets, spare inflatables. Neatly stacked, everything shipshape. It’s industrial, not an inviting place, and I walk by quickly, rounding the corner to the Promenade’s portside.

  A few other passengers are out and about, exploring the ship, taking pictures. Time to check Twitter again.

  Finally. Jilly. A DM. What news, lovely?

  I begin with Diana.

  Oooh, she says. That’s interesting. I didn’t see that one coming.

  No, I tell her. You didn’t.

  Ha ha.

  Indeed.

  And then I tell her about Fam_Tripper and SaylerGurl. SaylerGurl’s annotated Blips, going right the way back to May. And Sailing, from last night. And the second lilac envelope with its slightly creepy message.

  I don’t think SaylerGurl and Fam_Tripper are the same person, I tell her.

  How do you know they aren’t?

  I don’t. But in the absence of proof, I’m keeping an open mind.

  There’s a pause, while Jilly seems to be thinking. Remember that madwoman who was following you last year?

  How could I forget. Geraldine_31. From somewhere in the UK, quite possibly Norwich. Convinced I was in love with her. Absolutely convinced we were playing some kind of message game on Twitter, the details of which she revealed to me in a series of long and laboriously written notes which made no sense at all, except in her own mind. Mad as a hatter.

  Geraldine_31 followed me for nearly twelve months. And she was normal to begin with. But she seemed unhappy. I tried to cheer her up. I told jokes. Offered her chocolate. She took it offlist and we exchanged DMs. Many, many DMs. I’m not the world’s best psychologist but I thought I was doing some good.

  She told me she loved me. I didn’t say anything. She assumed that meant I was in love with her. I still didn’t say anything. I honestly didn’t want to hurt her feelings.

  I had to, in the end. It was getting to be too much. And that’s when the weird messages about games began. Seething anger, never sent directly to me, always general tweets to no one, completely unconnected. Then, Direct Messages, filled with agony and threats to do away with herself if I didn’t pay attention to her.

  I was on a break between contracts. Gigging around London, me and three mates, playing couple of clubs, just for fun. She was there at one of the gigs. I never saw her, but there was an angry message DM’d to me as I finished a set. I read it on my break, sitting at the bar. The message took issue with one of our songs—a cover of You Were Always on My Mind. She hated the way I sang it. Said I obviously didn’t feel any of it, so why continue with the lies.

  Once I was back at sea, the endless stream of abusive and sometimes threatening DMs continued. I discussed them with Jilly, who offered solace, wisdom, suggestions, advice.

  And then, one day, Geraldine_31 was suddenly not there anymore. Gone. Account suspended.

  Long gone, I remind Jilly. Disappeared in February.

  I feel very strongly that Geraldine_31 and SaylerGurl may be the same person.

  But she’s not there, Jilly. She deleted all her tweets. Her account’s inactive. I just looked.

  It’s true. I did. She doesn’t exist.

  People can and do come back, Jason. You have no idea at all who you’re dealing with. Be very very careful.

  Do me a favour, Jilly? See if you can find any proof at all that Fam_Tripper is SaylerGurl?

  I will, she promises. And…she’s gone.

  I switch off my phone, and look around again. At least if SaylerGurl—Geraldine_31—Fam_Tripper—turns out to be a creepy stalker, it’ll only be for the duration of the cruise. She’ll be gone on Saturday. The most I’ll have to put up with is a week of purple envelopes and my name scrawled in coloured ink around lovelorn posturings.

  8

  Sunday, at Sea

  Outside Prom. My Sunday morning stroll continues. Up ahead I can see Rick and Carly. It’s not good. Rick has hold of her arm and Carly’s struggling. We’re seconds away from something really unfortunate.

  “Good morning, Rick.”

  “Nothing good about it, mate. Stop your bloody whinging, woman—remember who paid for this bloody cruise!”

  “Darling—people are staring—”

  “I’ll give ’em something to stare at—”

  I grab Rick’s left hand before it can land. His right hand lets go of Carly’s arm, and she’s free. She’ll have a bruise there, where his fingers were dug in. A quick look at me and she’s safely through the door, and inside.

  One of the ship’s bars opens at nine, the other two at ten. Drink Specials can be paid up in advance, exotic and fun tipples at each venue, chunks of rare fruit impaled on funky swizzles. It’s possible to spend the entire cruise in a state of non-sobriety, and I’m sure StarSea Corporate counts on it, though they walk a fine line when it comes to toxic behaviour. Mr. Redding may be this week’s case in point. He’s three sheets to the wind and it’s only half eleven.

  “Bastard.”

  “I’ve been called worse.” I’m standing my ground between Rick and the door. I may end up in the ship’s hospital for this. “Do you want to be disembarked by Security?”

  I mean it. There’s a hidden camera directly over my head and I’m hoping Kev’s on his tea break. I’m meant only to Smile and Entertain, never to Intervene. I may have to claim that Mr. Redding is an old family friend. This may be news to Mr. Redding.

  Fortunately, drinkers are easily distracted. “Let’s walk.” I suggest.

  He’s agitated. But walking. And still contemplating a swift upper cut to my jaw. “We was only having words.”

  “It looked like more than that to me.”

  “You want to mind your own bloody business, mate. I been up half the night trying to arrange payment to a poxy garage in Bognor. They won’t accept my credit card over the phone. You’d be in a foul mood too. Carly just don’t get it.”

  “You can do that sort of thing online these days.” Wasting my life on the internet does have its advantages. “PayPal. Western Union. Come up to the Library—I’ll show you.”

  I guide Rick through the door. Ring for the forward passenger lift. And we’re up, and away, in the mirrored box with the plush blue carpet.

  The good thing about the Library on this ship is that the place where the books are is far more populated than the place where the computers are. The bad thing about the Library is that it’s next door to the TopDeck Lounge. And you can see it through those enormous etched glass windows. So where the computers and bookshelves stop, the bar service begins.

  Outside the Library there’s a little bistro. A nice touch. Selling coffees and teas and sweet baked things and tiny open-faced sandwiches with gourmet toppings. I sit Rick at a computer, and go off to fetch two chocolate flavoured coffees with whipped cream and party sprinkles. It’s on me. I have a running tab. And a crew discount.

  But while I’m giving the order to Harry, I can see Rick nipping away to the TopDeck bar, and he’s back with a double shot of neat Glenfiddich before the toppings are on the froth.

  I carry our cardboard cups back to the computer desk.

  “Ta, mate,” Rick says.

  And the Glenfiddich’s in his coffee before I’ve had time to pry the plastic lid off mine.

  “That’s better,” he says, pleased he’s outwitted me.

  I set him up and log him in. I’d use my own account, with its discount, but Rick’s wealthier than me and can easily afford the cost. And I’m not feeling overly generous towards him at the moment.

  “That Carly’s a demon when she’s agitated. She can hold her own, Jason, there was no need for you to interfere.”
>
  Wisely, I say nothing, while I search Google for a Western Union near Bognor.

  “She does kickboxing twice a week,” he adds.

  Dare I tell Rick the nearest Western Union to Bognor’s on the Isle of Wight, 44 km and a ferry crossing away? “Does anyone in your band have PayPal?”

  “What’s PayPal when it’s at home, then?”

  I’d explain it to him, but I’m not certain how much will be retained. Glenfiddich-laced coffee being what it is these days.

  Half an hour later, and it’s sorted. Woolly Worms not only knows what PayPal is—he uses it on a regular basis to buy bootleg recordings from a somewhat shady mate in the Philippines. Rick’s credit card deposit has been accepted by Woolly’s PayPal account. And Woolly is now on his way to a bank machine in Bognor Regis to withdraw his cash and take it to the garage. Result.

  “I dunno,” Rick says. “It’s all too much for me. It’s clever, though, innit?”

  He’s forgotten all about Carly. I’ve distracted and amused him. As well as ransomed The Pile Driver from gasket hell. Thus single-handedly saving The All-England Tour from total ruin.

  He can thank me later. “Another coffee?”

  “God love you, Jason, you’re a man on a mission.”

  I’ll try another tack. I might well be a man on a mission. This morning I’ve decided that Rick Redding may be a soul worth trying to save.

  “You know,” I tell him, “I’ve got masses of spare time. I only gig for a few hours each night. I’ve got four guitars down in my cabin. We could do a bit of a jam together. If you like.”

  He’s looking at me. Yes, I’m daft. It’s a stupid suggestion. Go on. Tell me what you think.

  “That’s decent of you, mate,” he says, after a moment. “Bloody decent. I’ll take you up on that.”

  “We’re in Juneau tomorrow. Are you sightseeing?”

  “Nah. Carly’s got plans for shopping. I thought I’d have a quick wander round but that’s all.”

  “It’s not strictly allowed—passengers in crew cabins—but as long as you don’t say anything, I won’t. Meet me tomorrow afternoon at the Photo Gallery. Roundabout fourish?”

  “I will,” he says. And his eyes are bright.

  And here comes Carly, toting blue and white bags from the Shops. “Hello darling. Look what I’ve bought.”

  Out come the bits and pieces, the shines and sparkles.

  “Look at these lovely expensive earrings…”

  She’s holding them up. They’re the same ones Wahtrina tried to sell me earlier.

  “You ok, Carly?” I check.

  “Course I’m ok,” she says, all hints of the earlier unpleasantness banished at the swipe of a credit card.

  “There you are, mate,” Rick says. “She’s right as rain. All it takes is a bit of shopping.”

  Time I was going. “Remember what I told you about ship’s Security,” I say, my parting gift.

  “I’ll be good as gold,” he promises.

  “He will,” Carly says. “He’ll be as good as gold.”

  Next door, TopDeck’s been hijacked by the travel agents for an organized social event. They’ve got the corner of the lounge to themselves. But the bar’s still open for business, so I sit on one of the high stools while Samuel’s daytime counterpart, Peter, makes me a pot of tea that rivals my gran’s, loose leaves, English Breakfast, steeped in a medium Brown Betty. From here, I can eavesdrop on the proceedings as I watch the scenery sail by.

  “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen.” It’s Ted, StarSea’s sales rep, today in white nautical trousers and a navy blue blazer with the corporate logo sewn onto the breast pocket. He’s been on board a few times. He stays up late and likes it when I play covers of Fleetwood Mac.

  “On behalf of StarSea Cruises and Captain Jack Callico I’d like to welcome you all aboard Star Sapphire.”

  I watch as a man and a woman wander through—in one door, out the other, without stopping. She’s pouting, and so’s he. They have matching gold rings, all polished and bright. Newlyweds. Why are they such unhappy creatures so soon after their wedding? I hope it’s not something their travel agent’s responsible for.

  “You’ve all got your timetables for the next seven days—sea day today, Captain’s Welcome Aboard for all pax tonight. Juneau tomorrow, with an orientation ashore and a whale watching tour. Tuesday, Skagway—a tour of the ship’s facilities in the morning, and then in the afternoon we’ll be doing the White Pass Railway. Wednesday, Glacier Bay—make sure you’ve got your cameras—and then the Captain’s VIP Party, to which we’ve all been invited. Thursday, Ketchikan—Friday at sea—we’ll have our Educational Seminar—and Saturday, we’re back in Vancouver.”

  I can see Fam_Tripper, taking notes, not really paying attention. Her left foot taps impatiently. She’s studying my little playstage opposite the bar: amps and boards and empty chair. I wonder what songs SaylerGurl is thinking of Blipping tonight.

  “At this point I’d like to introduce a few members of the ship’s company, starting off, of course, with Captain Jack Callico.”

  Enthusiastic applause and Captain Callico—clean-shaven and thin and looking not at all like his pirate namesake—steps forward, takes a brief bow, and, without speaking, retreats. Quickly.

  “Everything that happens on board must, by law, be filed and recorded in the ship’s log. That includes reports from every major department head, as well as details concerning the weather, navigation, the distance travelled and the amount of fuel consumed. Keeping Captain Callico organized is part of what Sally Jones does.”

  Sally’s wearing her officer’s blazer and the black stockings I bought her yesterday, and she looks all spit and polish. She takes a bow.

  More introductions. More applause. More cheers. The free rum punches are having their predicted effect. Ted’s now talking shop, and I’ve lost interest.

  Fam_Tripper follows with her eyes as Sally joins me at the bar.

  “Fizzy water, thanks, Peter,” Sally says. “Twist of lime.”

  “Going out tonight?” I inquire.

  “Might do,” she says, casually.

  Fam_Tripper is watching. I can’t tell what she’s thinking. Her expression is unchanged.

  “See you later, then?”

  “Use your intuition,” Sally says, as Peter delivers her drink.

  Sally knows about Jilly. And is unimpressed. Doesn’t believe in ESP, psychic ability, or anything else to do with the mystic, occult, or preternatural. Very much a pragmatist, our Sal. Guardian angels, however, are another matter entirely.

  “Castaways it is, then,” I tell her. “Half past one. I’m good, aren’t I.”

  “Habit,” Sal says. “Certainly not anything to do with crystal balls. Or tea leaves.”

  I drink the last of my tea, and peer into the cup. “There you are,” I say, showing her. “The action of my hand, as controlled by my mind, at whose bidding all will be revealed.”

  Sally looks into my cup. “I see a voyage…leading to a small amount of good luck…or possibly bad luck…and a person—or a place—whose name might contain the letter S.”

  She sips her fizzy water.

  “Or not.”

  Peter reaches for my cup. He’s from Donegal. His grandmother has danced with the fairies. “No,” he says, after a long thought. “There…look—that’s a feather.”

  He points, and we look. A feather. Or a leaf. A tea leaf.

  “That would indicate a need for you to concentrate,” Peter says. “And here, that brings to mind a spider.”

  We look.

  “Or an octopus,” Sally muses.

  “Is that its web?” I ask.

  Peter puts his head to one side, to concentrate. “If it is a spider, then you will come into some small reward. But if it’s a web, you must beware of traps.”

  “What about an octopus?” Sally says.

  “Hang on,” I say. “What’s this about traps?”

  “If it’s an octopus,” Pe
ter continues, giving me back my cup, “then it is very definitely a warning for you.”

  “A warning about what?”

  “A warning about believing in psychic tea leaves,” Sally says, removing the cup from my hand and placing it upside down in its saucer—a gesture not unnoticed by Fam_Tripper, on the other side of the room.

  Ted is now introducing Cruise staff. Jemima, with her long, honey-coloured hair, and a perfect body which is still in its fitness gear: navy blue T-shirt, khaki shorts, ankle socks, and running shoes. One of the male travel agents whistles his appreciation at her. Chief Purser, Barry Charles, affable, short and concerned about losing his hair, a permanently worried look on his face.

  Fam_Tripper is still looking at me. And Sally.

  “I want to know the name of that travel agent,” I say, to Sal. “The one with the long hair. Can you ask Kev?”

  “And I thought you only had eyes for me.”

  “Merely curious.”

  “Not a good enough reason.”

  “Jilly thinks she’s stalking me.”

  Sal nearly spills her fizzy water. “Absolutely not a good enough reason.”

  “I won’t keep you any longer, ladies and gentlemen. Have another drink on us, enjoy the view, and I’ll see you all again this evening at the Captain’s Welcome Aboard Champagne Waterfall.”

  Sal takes her fizzy water and slips off the bar stool.

  “Leaving so soon?” I inquire.

  “Later, Studmuffin,” she says, with an amused smile.

  And I watch Fam_Tripper, as Fam_Tripper watches Sally leave, her expression still very much unchanged.

  9

  Sunday, at Sea

  On port days, I go ashore for lunch. I have the menus in all of the restaurants memorized. I know where to find the wildest Salmon and King Crab, the most crustworthy sourdough and the thickest slabs of sashimi this side of the Salish Sea.

  On sea days—like now—it’s the Lido Café, a deli sandwich and a very good self-serve salad, a pot of Earl Grey, a glass of ice water, and if I’m feeling particularly in need of a pick-me-up, a nice tall tumbler of Coke, lots of ice from the dispenser, with a twist of lemon.

 

‹ Prev